Timetable of Death Page 5

  The man was suspicious. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’

  ‘You simply have to look into my eyes.’

  Colbeck gazed at him with an intensity and a sense of authority that made the policeman back away. Producing a weak smile of apology, he stood aside and waved the cab on. The man had been officious but Colbeck approved of his being there to keep unwanted visitors at bay. Quayle’s murder would have set the local press buzzing and the last thing that the family wanted at such a time was a demand from reporters to make a statement. They would still be reeling from the thunderbolt that had hit them. Colbeck needed to behave with the utmost tact.

  When the cab drew up outside the house, he asked the driver to wait then went to the front door. It opened before he could even reach for the bell and he was confronted by a beetle-browed butler who seemed as intent on sending him on his way as the policeman. Having heard who Colbeck was, however, the man grudgingly admitted him and took the visitor along to the study. Colbeck was left alone to gauge something of the character of Vivian Quayle from the room in which he’d worked. Patently, he was not a reading man. Though two walls were lined with bookshelves, there were very few books on them. Pride of place had instead been given to delicate porcelain. It occupied the majority of the shelves and the most attractive objects stood in a glass-fronted cabinet.

  Above the gleaming marble fireplace was the item that told Colbeck most about the dead man. It was a full-length portrait of Vivian Quayle, standing in front of a locomotive with an engine shed in the background. Well dressed and well groomed, Quayle had a smile on his face that spoke of unquestioning confidence in his abilities. He cut an incongruous figure against the industrial grime behind him but the fact that he’d asked the artist to paint the portrait in such a place showed a genuine love for the railway. Colbeck had more than a passing interest in the locomotive itself because his wife had developed her artistic skills to a point where she could sell her paintings of locomotives and he was pleased to see how superior her work was to the one before him. While the portrait painter had captured the essence of Vivian Quayle, he’d struggled to make the locomotive and the engine shed look at all realistic.

  ‘He loved that painting dearly,’ said a voice.

  Colbeck turned to see a tall, sleek man in his thirties who had just opened the door noiselessly and entered the study. At a glance, Colbeck could see that the newcomer bore a close resemblance to the figure in the portrait.

  ‘I’m Stanley Quayle,’ the son went on without offering a handshake. ‘You’ve come at an awkward time, Inspector Colbeck.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir, and I’m deeply sorry to intrude.’ He glanced up at the painting. ‘The locomotive is from the Jenny Lind class, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re very observant.’

  ‘It’s a later model so it was probably built in Derby. The original Jenny Lind, of course, was built in Leeds by E. B. Wilson and Company. Mr Kirtley, the esteemed locomotive superintendent of the Midland Railway, improved on the design. But,’ he said with a smile of apology, ‘you don’t wish to hear me rambling on about locomotives.’

  Quayle motioned him to the sofa then made a point of sitting in the chair at the desk as if signalling that he had just claimed part of his inheritance. While he was looking Colbeck up and down, the latter was appraising him.

  ‘What can you tell me, Inspector?’ asked Quayle.

  ‘First, let me offer you my sincere condolences, sir. I can imagine how great a shock this has all been to you.’

  ‘When will the body be released to us?’

  ‘That will happen as soon as the post-mortem is concluded.’

  ‘Do you need such a thing?’ demanded Quayle. ‘My father was murdered. Must you add to our grief by cutting him open like an animal on a butcher’s slab?’

  ‘It’s important for us to know the precise way in which he was killed, sir. We know that he was poisoned by lethal injection. If we can identify the nature of that poison, we may have a valuable clue.’

  ‘Why is it taking so long?’

  ‘I’ve no answer to that, sir.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘Is the whole family here at the moment?’

  ‘Most of us are,’ replied the other. ‘My younger sister lives here and my brother has a house nearby. Both are far too distressed to speak to you. As for my mother, I fear that this whole business may be the death of her. Mother is frail at the best of times. She’s taken to her bed. Only the capture of the villain who committed this foul crime could hope to revive her.’

  ‘You may leave that in my hands, sir. You said that most of the family were here. Are you expecting anyone else to join you?’

  ‘No, we’re not. My other sister went away years ago and is … estranged from events here. She may not even be aware of what’s happened.’

  ‘What will she do if she does become aware of them?’

  ‘That’s a private matter.’

  ‘On receipt of such terrible news about her father, any daughter would wish to return home, surely?’

  Quayle’s eyes flashed. ‘As I told you, Inspector, it’s a private matter.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘So I should hope. Now, what action have you taken?’

  ‘We’re looking closely at the place where the murder occurred. Can you suggest any reason why your father should have gone to Spondon in the first place?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Did he ever mention the village to you?’

  Quayle shook his head. ‘Why should he?’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘It must have been three or four days ago.’

  ‘So you’re unable to give me details of his movements on the day leading up to the murder. What about your brother or your sister?’

  ‘Neither of them can help you, Inspector. Father was a tireless workhorse. He was always on the move. Lucas saw very little of him and, even though she was under the same roof, Agnes spent almost no time with Father. She’s been too busy nursing our mother, a task that has suddenly become more pressing.’

  While he felt sympathy for the man, Colbeck resented the note of arrogance in his voice and the way that he was staring impatiently at his visitor as if anxious to get rid of him as soon as possible. The inspector did not sense a willingness to cooperate or an acknowledgement of his status as the person charged with solving the crime.

  ‘There’s a question that I’m bound to ask you, Mr Quayle.’

  ‘I’m not one to flinch,’ boasted the other, jutting out his jaw.

  ‘Did your father have any enemies?’

  ‘He was a successful man, Inspector, and, as such, excited a lot of envy.’

  ‘Envy rarely leads to murder, sir.’

  ‘That depends how high the stakes are.’

  ‘Are you referring to the chairmanship of the Midland Railway?’

  ‘If that’s the construction you wish to place on my remark, so be it. As for long-standing feuds with anyone, one or two may have existed. But in general, my father was a sociable man with a wide circle of friends. Messages of condolence have already started to pour in.’

  ‘But you’re not prepared to name any likely suspects, is that it?’

  Quayle was blunt. ‘You’re the detective – flush them out.’

  ‘Any help you could give us would be appreciated, sir.’

  ‘I’ve expressed my feelings,’ said the other, rising to his feet, ‘and I’m unable to give you any more time. The one place where you won’t find the killer is inside this house.’ He opened the door meaningfully. ‘Start looking elsewhere, Inspector.’

  ‘One last question,’ said Colbeck, getting up. ‘Do you, by any chance, happen to know a man by the name of Gerard Burns?’

  Quayle’s cheeks reddened and his body tensed. For a moment, it looked as if he was about to resort to physical violence and Colbeck prepared for an assault. In the event, it never came. Instead, Quayle walked to the door and opened it wide.


  ‘That’s all the time I can give you, Inspector.’

  Colbeck had his answer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Since their husbands had worked so closely together for a number of years, a friendship had grown up between Madeleine Colbeck and Estelle Leeming, and they tended to get together whenever their husbands were involved in a case that took them away from London. As it happened, the visit that Estelle made that afternoon to John Islip Street had been arranged a fortnight in advance. It coincided with the departure of both men to Derbyshire. Knowing that her guest would bring her two boisterous young sons, Madeleine had taken the precaution of inviting her father and it was not long before Caleb Andrews led the boys out into the garden to play. Their whoops of pleasure could be heard clearly inside the house.

  ‘It’s so kind of Mr Andrews to take charge of them,’ said Estelle. ‘It means that we can have a proper conversation for once.’

  ‘My father enjoys their company.’

  ‘They can be difficult to control sometimes.’

  ‘He manages somehow.’

  ‘When they’re not at school, finding something to do with them is always a problem. Separately, David and Albert would be no trouble but, as soon as they get together, the sparks begin to fly.’ More yells were heard from the garden. ‘I hope they don’t tire your father out.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him, Estelle. He’s much tougher than he looks.’

  ‘The boys can wear you down, Maddy.’

  Estelle Leeming was a pretty woman in her thirties with a slim body and auburn hair that she’d passed on to both of her sons. Living in a small house, she was always rather intimidated by the Colbeck residence. After all the years as the wife of a policeman, she still worried about her husband whenever he went to work.

  ‘It was worse in the old days,’ she confided, ‘when Victor was still in uniform. I knew that he’d always come home with bruises or scratches on his face yet it always took me by surprise somehow. When he turned up with a terrible black eye one night, I had a job recognising him. He got it when he arrested a burglar he caught climbing out of a house.’

  ‘Robert always says that he’s bound to be injured from time to time. He never complains about pain. If he gets his coat torn in a fight, however, or if someone damages his hat, then he’s livid.’ They both laughed. ‘He cares far more about his appearance than he does about his safety.’

  ‘That’s certainly not true of Victor.’

  ‘What did he tell you, Estelle?’

  ‘All he sent me from Scotland Yard was a short letter saying that he was off to Derby for some reason. He gave no details.’

  ‘Then I can at least provide you with some information because Robert’s letter was more explicit. A director of the Midland Railway has been murdered. They were summoned by telegraph.’

  ‘I suppose that we ought to feel proud that they’re always in demand,’ said Estelle with a sigh, ‘but I do miss Victor. Apart from anything else, the boys are much more of a handful when he’s away. Still, you’ll find out the problems of being a mother when you have children of your own.’

  ‘I already have a child.’

  Estelle sat up. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Madeleine, pointing to the window. ‘He’s out there in the garden with the boys. Since he retired, my father’s entered his second childhood.’

  ‘I daresay that he’d like grandchildren of his own.’

  ‘That’s in the lap of the gods, Estelle.’

  ‘It’s certainly not something you can control,’ admitted the other. ‘We had to wait. When it happened, we were so grateful to have two healthy boys. It completed the family somehow.’

  ‘I’m sure that it did,’ said Madeleine, keen to get off the subject. ‘It’s time for tea, I think.’ She rang the bell for a servant. ‘They’ll have worked up an appetite by charging around the lawn.’

  Victor Leeming was quietly elated. When he mistook Philip Conway for a potential suspect, he made a new friend and learnt a great deal about Spondon. The reporter had not only talked to several people in the village, he recalled details of recent crimes there, recorded in editions of his newspaper. Leeming was surprised to hear how much of it there had been. Apart from thefts from various premises, there had been a spate of vandalism, a drunken brawl that led to three arrests and a case of sexual assault. Beneath the even tenor of the village, there was clearly a worrying undercurrent. As he talked to the young reporter, Leeming came to understand the full meaning of serendipity. Chancing upon Conway had been a stroke of good fortune.

  ‘What about the murder of Enoch Stone?’ he asked.

  ‘That will never be solved.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Too much time has gone by and any clues have long since disappeared. I don’t think the killer was a local man. Stone was well liked here. My guess is that he was set on by a traveller of some sorts who battered him to the ground, stole his money then fled. They’ll never find him, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yet they’re still looking.’

  ‘They might as well chase moonbeams.’

  ‘I’ve arrested quite a few moonbeams in my time,’ said Leeming with a chuckle. ‘Just when you’re ready to abandon a particular case, something always turns up out of the blue to help you solve it.’

  ‘I’m glad you mentioned turning up,’ said Conway, glancing at the clock on the wall, ‘because that’s what my editor is expecting me to do. We’ve been here almost two hours. I’ll have to go, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  Conway got up. ‘I’ll probably be in Spondon again tomorrow.’

  Leeming shook his hand warmly. ‘You know where to find me.’

  ‘Goodbye, Sergeant.’

  When the reporter went out, Leeming followed to wave him off. He then turned in the opposite direction and went in search of Walter Grindle. The moment he got within earshot of the forge, he could hear a hammer striking the anvil with rhythmical power. He arrived in time to see the blacksmith fitting a shoe to a shire horse. Bert Knowles was holding the animal’s bridle and smoking his pipe. Unable to understand more than a few words of what they were saying to each other, Leeming had to wait until the work was finished. As soon as he introduced himself, both men took an interest. Grindle demanded that the crime be solved quickly so that his children would stop fearing that a killer was stalking the streets of the village. He explained how distressed they both still were. For his part, Knowles had seen someone putting up a reward notice and, since he was barely literate, had got the man to read it out to him.

  ‘Two ’undred!’ he said, moving the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘I could sup a lot o’ beer wi’ a windfall like thar.’

  ‘Do you have any information that could lead to the killer?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘I might ’ve.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look arter Samson, will ter?’ said Knowles to the blacksmith, handing over the horse. ‘The sergeant’s gonna buy me a pint.’

  Leeming was dubious. ‘Have you really got something useful to tell me?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Knowles, indignantly. ‘I dug the bleedin’ grave where thar dead body turned up.’

  As soon as he saw the window display at Brough and Hubbleday, Tailors Ltd, Colbeck’s heart lifted. Everything on show was of the highest quality. He entered the premises to be greeted by Simon Hubbleday, a round-shouldered little man in his sixties who had worked there since the day the shop had opened. Peering over the top of his spectacles, he took one look at Colbeck and clapped his hands in appreciation.

  ‘Nothing we could make for you would be an improvement on what you already wear, sir,’ he said, honestly. ‘The cut and cost of your attire tells me that you hail from London and keep a tailor in Bond Street or somewhere nearby.’

  ‘You have good eyesight.’

  ‘I only wish that Mr Brough was still alive to admire that cravat and that waistcoat. But my erstwhile partner
– I am Simon Hubbleday, by the way – died a few years ago and left me alone with the task of making the gentry of Nottingham look both smart and respectable.’

  ‘Your window display does you credit, Mr Hubbleday.’

  ‘Praise from a man with your meticulous attention to detail is praise indeed.’ He beamed at Colbeck. ‘How can we be of service to you, sir?’

  ‘I’d like to say that you could make something for me Mr Hubbleday, but the truth is I come only in search of information. One of your customers, I believe, was Mr Vivian Quayle.’ The old man’s face clouded. ‘I see that you’ve heard the sad news about him.’

  ‘Mr Quayle has been a customer for many years and so, I may add, have both of his sons. What happened to him is quite appalling. A nicer gentleman does not exist in the whole of Nottingham. It was a privilege to serve him.’

  Colbeck introduced himself and asked if they might have a word in private. After summoning an assistant from the inner reaches of the shop, Hubbleday took his visitor off to an office that was barely big enough to accommodate both of them.

  ‘Fortunately,’ said the old man, ‘Mr Brough was even smaller than me. The two of us could fit in here without any difficulty. Now, Inspector, what do you wish to know?’

  ‘Tell me about Mr Quayle’s top hat.’

  ‘It was something about which he was very particular.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t ask me why. We sell top hats by the dozen. Our highest price is five shillings and sixpence but most customers settle for something slightly cheaper. Mr Quayle, by contrast, paid even more for his because he wanted the very finest silk. It was, if I may say so, a top hat of top hats.’

  ‘In other words, it would be very distinctive.’

  ‘Any man of discernment would covet it, Inspector.’

  ‘That may explain why it disappeared.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Colbeck told him that the hat was missing from the open grave in which the dead man was found. Opening a drawer in his desk, Hubbleday took out a pile of drawings and began to leaf through them.